The night sky blazed brilliantly with fire, burning and churning, writhing and falling. Air reeking of charred flesh and burning hair, smells of death. Dozens of black specks danced and twirled, spinning and singing songs of death. Triumphantly, they carried the heads of the adversary high, lapping the blood from twisted long black limbs. Their voices cut through the night like shrill banshees accompanied by a chorus of the crackling flames. Their enemy destroyed, they celebrated the victory christened through the fire and blood of slain.

Black Spiral Dancers had swept in like a ominous tide, out numbering the small camp of Black Furies easily. However they did not lay down to die, they fought long, they fought hard. Even with the presence of elders, powerful Garou, and kinfolk, they were outdone by the sheer numbers.

Their screams long filled the night as the blood bath was drug out for hours. The heads loped off and bodies thrown into the flames. No one was spared, those who ran were only pursued and brought back. Only total annihilation of the camp would satisfy the Dancers' hunger.

White Wing was but still young, barely aware of what she truly was, but aware of what was to be. Her memory developed and a strong desire to live out this new change. She had long fell asleep with her litermates, tired from festivities of the night. Peaceful slumber was ripped from them as the screams and cries sliced through them, awaking them to confusion and chaos.

A large bat eared creature, that looked much like a wolf came into the den, scooped up the pups and stole them into the cold night air. Knocked about and abused, batty eared creatures delighted in the torture and demise of the tiny victims. Bodies limp as marionettes dropped by a puppeteer, they were tossed into a pile of bodies as dead.

Her escape was not heroic, nothing grand, but mere survival. Clawing her way from the pile of dead. Blood covering every inch of her, fear filling every tiny vein, she pulled herself to the top. Kerosene stung and burned her nose and eyes, fumes wafted around, making her feeling sicker than ever. Standing upon the limp backs and bloody remains of her kin and kind, White Wing strained to see. Slipping and sliding down the outside of the mound, she reached the bottom. Tiny heart beat fast as she scampered away in the night, driven on by her instincts to survive.

And survive White Wing did. News of the attack spread quickly, though it was too late others came to the camp. As they carried out the remains of the dead, they came upon White Wing, shaken, tired, and alone, wandering the devastation searching for her mother and sisters. Fear and pain filled her eyes as she cried out, heartbroken and sick as none of a response was given. Deep inside she knew she was alone, but her heart and mind couldn't accept it.

She was taught by another pack of her tribe, but the events of that night could not be dislodged from her mind. Afraid to let anyone near her, she grew separated from the pack, never accepting them as her own. The lone survivor, she often overheard how it was nearly expected of her by some to find the ones who had done this and be kill them. As she grew so did her desire to seek vengeance on those who led the massacre on her camp. Now she is consumed by vengeance, and wants this badly.

Her hunt had lead her across the maps, ever searching, ever hunting for those who seem to elude her when she is the closest.

 

 

Anna

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